A Basket of Wishes

by Rebecca Paisley

She saw the sheen of desire come into his eyes, and sighed with delight when he gently pushed her back down to the mattress and knelt between her parted thighs. Only when he lowered himself upon her and she felt him begin to penetrate her did she tense and experience a small tremor of anxiety. “Jourdian…”

  He felt her quiver beneath him and watched her ball her small hands into fists, but he didn’t stop. He’d told her he wouldn’t hurt her again, and now he would give her solid proof. Slowly, heated inch by heated inch, he slipped into her.

  Splendor’s fists uncurled. She felt him slide deeper and deeper inside her, stretching and filling her like before, but there came not a shred of pain. “No pain, Jourdian.”

  “Not ever again, Splendor.”

  He made love to her slowly, with long, leisurely strokes, pacing their lovemaking in such a way as to build her pleasure bit by bit. When he heard her music and sensed she was at the brink of release, he bridled her fulfillment by changing the rhythm of the movement of his hips. Thus, he kept her hovering somewhere between mere delight and total ecstasy.

  Only when he saw the color of her eyes deepen from lavender to a dark purple did he indulge her longing for completion. He heard her music reach its majestic zenith and felt her silken femininity tremble around him.

  Off the bed they rose, and Jourdian found his own release just as they floated beneath the chandelier. Cool crystal prisms skimmed lightly down his back as hot sensual bliss flamed through him.

  He didn’t know how long he and Splendor glided through the room, nor did he care. Holding her tightly to him, he sighed with deep contentment and closed his eyes.

  And when Splendor brought them back to the bed, Jourdian was already fast asleep. With a dash of silver stars, she placed him under the covers with his head in the middle of a mound of satin pillows. Joining him there, she settled herself close to him and watched his face as he slept.

  He was so beautiful that her heart leapt within her breast. And the memory of his lovemaking…the way he’d held her, whispered to her, kissed her, and brought her such tantalizing joy…

  She knew that if she lived to be a thousand years old, she would never again know the same profound happiness that she’d found with Jourdian Amberville.

  A thousand years, she mused. She had only three months.

  He began to speak in his sleep. Murmured something she didn’t comprehend. She remembered other things he’d said. Things she had understood.

  Nothing you do or say is going to stop me from making you my duchess in every true sense of the word.

  Lifting her hand, she caressed the mole on his cheek with a touch as light as a baby’s sigh. He had made her his duchess, she mused. He’d married her, then filled her with his essence. A truer thing she couldn’t imagine.

  You are my duchess, and you will remain with me here at Heathcourte.

  His declaration beat through her mind like a hard, violent rain, flooding her with a bereft feeling she’d never experienced in all her life. She felt as though she was losing something. Something precious to her, something she would not have back again.

  She’d never lost anything before.

  The sadness that welled within her then was the most profound emotion she’d ever known. And it remained inside her. Wasn’t shallow, didn’t fade.

  It grew, and it made her heart hurt.

  And for the first time since she’d met Jourdian in the meadow, she pondered the day when she would leave him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When Jourdian awakened the next morning, the place beside him was cool and empty. Rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his eyes, he sat up and looked around the room.

  “Splendor?” He got out of bed and walked into the middle of his chambers. “Splendor?”

  Wondering if she’d dwindled in size, he began looking inside every small container he could find: vases, bowls, dishes, a deep fold in one of the velvet drapes, even inside his hats.

  After a while of searching in vain, he decided she was downstairs, perhaps with Emil, granting wishes right and left. God, there was simply no guessing what he might encounter when he found his overly wishful cousin and exceedingly generous wife.

  He didn’t bother to ring for his valet, but chose his clothing himself, laid it out on the bed, and then proceeded into his bath, a large and elegant room done in white marble and accented with fixtures of pure gold.

  As soon as he stepped into the room, he heard splashing sounds coming from behind the white silk screen that stood in front of the sunken bathtub. “Splendor?”

  He heard a female voice speak. But the voice was low, muffled. “Splendor,” he called again.

  Wondering why she didn’t answer him, he walked across the room and behind the screen.

  He stopped short. And frowned.

  A woman knelt beside the tub, her hands immersed in the water. She was garbed in a gown that Jourdian’s quick mind recognized as typical of the eleventh century.

  Mindful of his nakedness, he hastened to find a towel and wrap it around his hips. Dressed thus, he joined the woman behind the screen again. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my bath?” he demanded in the ducal tone that intimidated most people who heard it.

  The woman didn’t look up, but only continued to swish her wrinkled hands through the water.

  “Madam,” Jourdian snapped, “how did you get in here?” She drew her hands out of the water, and stared at her right palm. Her face set in grim lines of determination, she began to rub that palm with her other hand. “‘Out, damned spot! Out, I say! Out, damned spot! Out, I say!’”

  Jourdian reeled with disbelief that quickly turned into precise comprehension. Spinning on his heel, he marched out of the bath, dressed with utmost haste, and headed downstairs.

  “Where is Her Grace?” he demanded when he encountered Ulmstead on the second-floor staircase.

  Ulmstead struggled to hold on to a long, velvet sash at the end of which was tied an irritated llama. “Sir, I found this llama in the reception room downstairs. It raced up here, where I was finally able to catch it. Forgive me for using this drapery sash as a rope, Your Grace, but it was a matter of necessity. Now, however, I cannot get this animal to walk down these steps. A llama! This is quite the most preposterous creature I have found yet!”

  Jourdian glanced at the llama he knew was Delicious, then looked back up at the bewildered butler. “Uh...I heard that a circus has been traveling through this area. The llama more than likely escaped.”

  “A circus?”

  “Ulmstead, have you seen Her Grace?”

  “I haven’t seen her, your lordship,” the butler panted, his bony face taut with strain as he battled to keep the llama from going back up the stairs. “But it could be that she’s with Mr. Tate, who is breakfasting in the morning room.”

  Jourdian left Ulmstead to deal with Delicious, and wasted no time getting to the morning room, a sunny apartment with a huge bay window.

  Emil sat at a small round table in front of the window, his breakfast laid out before him. “Good morning, cousin,” he said, toasting Jourdian with a cup of steaming tea. “Slept in this morning, did you? It’s ten and a quarter, and you’re usually up by seven and in your office working by nine. My, but your ho-hum routine has changed since you wed.”

  Jourdian noted the leftover fruit on the plate across from Emil’s and the glass that was half full of cream. “Where is Splendor?”

  Emil sipped his tea, then set the cup back on the delicate saucer. “She finished eating and said she was going for a stroll. But I’ve company in here, so you needn’t worry about my being lonesome.”

  Jourdian frowned. “What company?”

  Emil pointed to the corner of the room behind Jourdian. “Those charming women have been keeping me thoroughly entertained.”

  Jourdian wheeled around, certain he would see a harem of beautiful, voluptuous females.

  He saw three hags with stringy white hair, pointed chins, and eyes like bits of l
it coal. Hunched around a big black pot, long sticks in their gnarled hands, they stirred something that steamed from the cauldron.

  And they chanted. “‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’”

  “The witches from Macbeth,” Jourdian whispered, his temper beginning to steam as well. “Emil, why did you allow Splendor to—”

  “She’s not my fairy, cousin. She’s yours. I have no right to tell her how to use her magic. Besides, I think it rather fascinating to be able to meet Shakespearean characters. And those witches are really perfectly harmless, Jourdian. They’ve done naught but stir their pot and chant since Splendor conjured them up.”

  Too furious to answer his fanciful cousin, Jourdian left the room and stormed directly outside. Stalking all around the grounds, he looked everywhere for his wayward wife. Only when he neared one of the rose gardens did his search slow and finally stop.

  A tall figure moved amidst the roses. But it wasn’t Splendor. It was a man, a bearded man. His hands clasped behind his back, he paced, and his face registered deep, grim contemplation. “‘To be, or not to be: that is the question,’” he said as he walked among the roses. “‘Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune—’”

  “‘Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?’” Jourdian finished for him. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. “Hamlet,” he fumed aloud. “Lady Macbeth in my bath, the three witches in my morning room, and Hamlet in my rose bushes! What more, Splendor?” he shouted, uncaring that she might be too far away to hear him. “Who else am I going to come upon, damn it all!”

  “‘To die: to sleep,’” Hamlet continued.

  “Listen,” Jourdian said to him, “I want you out of my garden and back in your book in two seconds, do you understand me? And take Lady Macbeth and those cauldron-stirring witches with you! What if someone sees you out here? How the bloody hell would I explain—”

  “‘No more,’” Hamlet said, “‘and, by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation devoutly to be wish’d.’”

  Ramming his fingers through his hair, Jourdian tramped away to resume his search for his incorrigible fairy wife. He’d taken only a few long strides before spying a lovely dark-haired maiden leaning over one of the second-story balconies, her ample bosom nearly spilling out of her gown.

  She spoke. “‘O, Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’”

  His eyes mere slashes across his face, Jourdian stared into the hedgerow beneath the balcony, already knowing who he would see. Sure enough, there stood Romeo, gazing up at Juliet with all the love in the world in his eyes.

  “‘Deny thy father,’” Juliet continued, “‘and refuse thy name. Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be Capulet.’”

  “You’ll no longer be alive as soon as I find Splendor!” Jourdian shouted up to her.

  Again, he set off to look for Splendor. A half an hour of looking seemed like half of eternity to him, but he finally found her standing near the pavilion. As he neared her, he realized she wore naught but a silk shirt and a bit of cream around the edges of her mouth.

  Well, at least the pavilion was situated near the edge of the woods, well away from the house. The chances were small that any of the estate workers could see her here. But dammit, when would her clothes arrive?

  “Splendor—”

  “Jourdian!” she greeted him gaily. “Oh, husband, do you know that I almost stepped into this pretty white edifice?” she asked, gesturing toward the pavilion. “But just as I began to step into it, I realized it is put together with iron nails! How many times must I tell you that iron—”

  “Lady Macbeth is in my bath trying to wash a damned spot of imaginary blood from her hand, the three witches are watching Emil eat in my morning room, Juliet is hanging off a balcony, Romeo is loitering near the hedgerow, and Hamlet is ambling through my rose garden trying to answer the question of to be or not to be!”

  “Aye, that is what they are all doing.”

  “I want those characters not to be, Splendor, do you understand me? Not to be! Get rid of them right this very second!”

  “But—but you like Shakespeare and his characters!”

  “Not enough to live with them, I don’t!”

  “Jourdian, you are shouting at me.”

  “That I am, wife, and if you dare to throw me into that snake pit again, I’ll—”

  “You will what?” She folded her arms across her breasts and lifted her chin a few notches.

  Jourdian saw a dare in her amethyst eyes. “Do you challenge me, Splendor? Do you think that because you can do magic that I am going to cower before you?”

  “You—”

  “Do your worst. Here I stand, completely vulnerable before your powers. But I promise you this: Short of killing me, you will not escape—”

  “Kill you!” The very thought misted Splendor’s eyes with the sheen of diamonds. “Jourdian, I would never—”

  “No?”

  “Nay!”

  It was Jourdian’s turn to fold his arms across his chest. “Then I’ve nothing to fear, do I? Get rid of Lady Macbeth, the witches, Ham—”

  “I will not kill you, Jourdian, but I will—”

  “Then do it. Do what you will.”

  “I could turn you into a slug, just as Harmony did,” she warned.

  “Fine. I’m ready.”

  “Do not tempt me.”

  “I’m more than tempting you, Splendor. I’m daring you.”

  “How would you like to be plunged into the North Sea? With sharks?”

  His heart skipped a beat, but his face remained expressionless. “Do it.”

  “’Twould be effortless to fill the shoes you wear with scorpions.”

  One by one, he lifted both his feet. “Fill them.”

  She stared at him for a long moment. “’Tis trust you show, Jourdian. I am glad that you are not afraid of me. Glad that you know I will nay cause any harm to befall you.”

  He felt his frantic heartbeat slow. “Are there any more fictitious people in my house and gardens? If I go to my barns, will I see King Lear and Othello in the tack and feed rooms? Is the master here as well? Is he, Splendor? Did you put old William Shakespeare himself in my office perhaps?”

  “Do you wish for him to be there?”

  “No! Send those characters back to their appropriate pages in the book!”

  She floated to him. “I wanted to make you happy. I thought you would enjoy—”

  “You thought wrong. Now, for the last time, get rid of those characters. I wish for you to do so, and I wish for you to grant my wish right now.”

  Her lips thinned in displeasure, Splendor waved her hand toward the manor house, which, for a moment became completely encased in a cloud of silvery magic. “They are gone, and you are uncivil. By gifting you with a few of Shakespeare’s characters, I had so hoped to make you smile and laugh. And yet you saw fit only to shout.”

  Jourdian realized how truly upset his shouting had made her when he saw her misty haven begin to appear around her. Before she could dissolve, he took her hand and pulled her away from the shining haze. “You are not going to disappear every time we have a disagreement, Splendor.”

  She looked up at him. “But ’tis what you do, Jourdian. When you become angry or in some way upset, you get on your horse and ride away. What is the difference between disappearing into mist and riding away on a horse? Both are means of escape from difficult situations, are they not?”

  He knew she had a point, but he’d be damned if he’d concede. “There is a big difference between disappearing into a fog and riding away!”

  “But you ride away into the country and disappear.”

  “On a horse, not on a cloud of mist!”

  “The ends are the same. You vanish from sight. Uncivil is what you are, Jourdian. Uncivil for shouting and uncivil for continuing an argume
nt that you know full well I have won.” Patience didn’t come easily, but he managed to find a thread of it. “Listen to me, Splendor,” he said quietly, and took hold of her slight shoulders. “You rouse my temper easily because…I didn’t know what you were when I married you. I… The woman I was looking for… She… You’re different, and I—”

  “Jourdian,” Emil called as he arrived. “I’m off now, cousin. Many thanks for your hospitality, and a pox on you for not allowing me any of my wishes. Splendor,” he said, picking up her hand and kissing it lightly, “a pleasure to see you, as always. I’ll come again soon, and when I do it will be with the fervent hope that my selfish, stingy cousin will permit me a few wishes.”

  Jourdian rolled his eyes. “Emil, this conversation was over last evening. I will not discuss it—”

  Before he could finish, a sphere of fire burned a black hole upon a patch of grass on the side of the pavilion. In the next instant, Harmony stood on the charred spot, her bare legs still engulfed in blazes.

  “Oh, God,” Jourdian muttered. “Just what I need after the morning I’ve had.”

  “Who…” Emil began, but was so mesmerized by the woman’s naked beauty that he could not think of the rest of his words. “Who… Who… Who…”

  “Oh, how supremely amusing, Emil!” Splendor exclaimed, and smiled. “You sound exactly like an owl!”

  Emil continued to gawk at the nude woman. The gold of her hair rivaled spring sunshine. Her eyes were the bluest things he’d ever seen, her lips impossibly pink. And her breasts…

  He swallowed. Hard. God almighty, her white breasts were the most beautiful he’d ever seen. And her legs! He could only imagine how the pale silk of her legs would feel beneath his fingers and palms.

  But beyond her beauty, there was something else about her. Something that seemed to drift toward him, into him, and curl around his heart.

  It was a bond, he realized. Yes, he felt an immediate bond with her. It didn’t matter that he knew not her name or anything else about her. There existed a natural affinity between them, stronger than anything he’d ever experienced.

  Emil had always wondered if falling in love at first sight was possible. Now he knew it was. “Who is she, Jourdian?” he whispered so faintly that Jourdian could barely hear him.